Passing Time
by cmr2014
Summary: Vash would rather be earning a paycheck. But with work not to be found and the insurance girls a long ways off his trail, tangling with a local outlaw is at least something to pass the time.
1. Chapter 1

DISCLAIMER: Trigun and its characters belong to Yasuhiro Nightow.

 **Passing Time**

It was pretty basic as towns went – a small piece of space wreckage with just one plant; one main street that held a hotel, a saloon, a general store, a restaurant, and a small thomas coops at the farthest end; scattered residences, all making sure to stay close to the plant.

Vash the Stampede had money enough that he didn't have to stay, but he also had a pretty good head start on the troublesome insurance girls. He felt it was worth it to stick around a bit, see if he could find some work. It was always good to keep the tommy bank full.

He sauntered past the saloon, casually glancing inside as he did. Empty, a good sign at this time of day. Meant people had things to do other than drink. Things like jobs.

Went to the hotel and booked a room. Passed by the saloon again; still empty. Crossed the street and leaned against a wall in the shadow of an awning, waiting and watching. For half an hour, he just waited. Watched.

Nothing moved except the sand as wind blew it here and there.

Looked clear. Head slowly swiveling as he did so, Vash crossed the street and entered the saloon.

The bartender was tall, thin, salt-and-pepper hair with a dark, well-kept mustache. He was reading a book when Vash came up to the bar. Without looking up, he asked, "What'll it be?"

"Beer."

The bartender slid a thin bookmark off the bar and placed it in the book. "Should warn you, what we got is warm."

"Long as it's wet."

The bartender shrugged. Grabbed a glass and filled it from the tap, expertly slid it back down to Vash, who caught it just as expertly, not sloshing a drop.

Vash drank quietly, slowly, making each swallow count. The bartender returned to his reading.

After ten or so minutes of this, the doors opened, boots sounded on the floor. Because of course only _after_ Vash had scouted would someone come in. Vash the Stampede had found many laws, even sometimes laws of physics, to be breakable, but he had yet to find a way to successfully break Murphy's Law.

He turned slowly, casually, to take in the newcomer. The man was short, but burly and weathered, missing a shave by a few weeks, thick dark hair and darker eyes. A hat similar to a _sombrero_ hung back by a strap. But most important was the tied-down gun.

The stranger marched up to Vash. "You come for the bounty on me?"

Vash shook his head. "Nope. For the beer."

"Ha! I don't believe you."

"Your call." Vash started to turn back, only to be spun back around by a forceful grab of his arm.

"You're waiting for me to drop my guard," the stranger deduced. "But it won't work. I'm Colt Winchester, and even if I did drop my guard you'd still be dead as soon as you made a move, because I'm not just the most wanted man around here, I'm also the fastest!"

Jeez. Another guy who thought fast was the same as accurate, or even that skill with a gun was something to brag about.

Vash raised his eyebrows anyway. "You say you're the fastest?"

"In five towns!" Winchester declared proudly.

"Huh. That's weird, because there's a guy in the back room over there that's been saying _he's_ the fastest."

The bartender looked up from his book and over at the door to the back room by the bar. Back at Vash, blank expression but curious eyes.

"He does, does he?" Winchester spat. "We'll see about that! Take me to this man who is supposedly faster than I, Colt Winchester, notorious outlaw!"

Vash shrugged; who was he to infringe on someone's God-given right to be a sucker? "Right this way."

He led Winchester around the bar and to the door to the back room. "You'll find him in there, looking for some whiskey."

"He's about to find some lead!" declared the outlaw, throwing open the door and storming in.

Before Winchester could realize the room was empty, Vash smoothly grabbed a chair in one hand and closed the door with the other, wedging the chair firmly under the knob.

As the pounding began from inside the back room, Vash told the bartender, "I'd appreciate it if you'd wait before letting him out, give me enough time to get to my hotel room."

The bartender nodded; the hotel employed good security and was very strict about not allowing gunplay.

Vash placed a bill on the bar before walking out. "Thanks for the beer."


	2. Chapter 2

DISCLAIMER: Trigun and its characters belong to Yasuhiro Nightow.

So far, no one had any need of a worker.

But the people were friendly; Vash's few inquiries up to this point had yielded some very nice conversations. And his sources told him the insurance girls were still a-ways out. That and the fact he still had plenty of money meant it wouldn't hurt anything to stick around a while longer, keep looking for work.

It was starting to get late. Best to put off continued hunting until tomorrow. Time for a beer.

He stuck his head out the window of his hotel room. Sighed. Of course it wouldn't be as simple as just being able to get a beer; the outlaw Colt Winchester was waiting outside the saloon.

Well, at least it was something to do.

Vash traded his usual gloves for a pair of sap gloves. The six ounces of powdered lead sewn into the knuckles of each one made them good blunt weapons, especially on someone who already knew how to use proper mechanics for added wallop.

He stopped off at the front desk and produced a bill for the clerk. Hopefully, greasing palms wouldn't have to become a regular thing, else he might actually _need_ the work he was seeking. "Please call down to the saloon in ten minutes."

"What should I say, sir?"

Vash gave him a cheery smile. "You don't have to say anything, just make sure the phone there rings in ten minutes."

"Yes, sir. Ten minutes." The clerk was confused, but as long as it was a profitable confusion he was fine.

To avoid being seen by the outlaw, Vash ducked out the rear entrance of the hotel and swiftly worked his way down to the saloon, eyeing the gaps between buildings before traversing them. This wasn't going to work if he was seen before he was ready to be seen.

The saloon had a back door for deliveries. Mindful of the time limit he'd set, Vash knocked rapidly, trying to balance between loud enough for the bartender to hear but quiet enough for Winchester to not hear.

It worked. The bartender opened the door to see who was there, and Vash entered before the man could protest. He waved a bill at the bartender, who cocked his head but still nodded and took the bill.

"There's not much time left," Vash explained quietly. "In a few minutes your phone's going to ring. Who's on the other end doesn't matter, you're just going to say that it's Katie from May City. Got it?"

"Why Katie from May City?" the bartender asked.

"Because everybody knows a Katherine or a Kate in May City, it's a common name there and everybody's been there. It's almost time, I just need you to do it, ok?"

"Ok. But promise nothing here will get broken up, all right?"

"It won't, as long as you do like I said." Vash crossed to the public side of the bar and said, almost in a shout, "Gimme a beer!"

That did the trick. Rapid bootsteps sounded, the outlaw entered.

"Aha!" Winchester proclaimed. "Caught you sneaking around! Thought you were pretty clever yesterday, didn't you? But nobody gets over on Colt Winchester twice! Get ready to finish this, stranger!"

The phone rang. Whew. Sometimes Vash felt like maybe he cut things a little too close to the wire; he would have felt awfully bad if, because of bad timing, he'd had to break his word that nothing would get busted up.

The bartender picked up. "Saloon, Thaddeus here." He paused, miming listening. Held the phone out. "Either of you two know a Katie from May City?"

The outlaw's eyes lit up, face breaking into some ugly expression that Vash assumed was his smile. "Katie! Hot dog, she _does_ remember me!" Forgetting about Vash, he turned his back on his opponent, snatching the phone from Thaddeus the bartender. "Katie, m'girl!"

It took just a heartbeat for Vash to push off his rear foot, the power starting there and traveling through his leg, increasing as he torqued his hips into it, transmitting from them through the rest of his twisting torso and into his shoulders and finally down his arm and into his fist as it launched in its arc, full of the power that proper mechanics generate in less than an instant. It was a hard hook, its impact made even harder by the powdered metal in the sap glove, and it impacted firmly in the soft spot behind Winchester's ear.

Winchester turned around. For a horrifying heartbeat, Vash was afraid he'd underestimated what it would take to knock him out.

But the outlaw wore a dazed grin. "That Katie," he slurred. "She al'ays could make m'see stars!" He collapsed to the floor, knocked out cold.

Vash shook his head, bending down to scoop up the phone, which he handed back to the bartender with another bill. "Gonna need that beer to go."


	3. Chapter 3

DISCLAIMER: Trigun and its characters belong to Yasuhiro Nightow.

"I'm sorry, son," the old man said, "I just don't need any help right now."

"That's ok," Vash replied. "It's good when a man has his home all the way in order. Thanks for hearing me out."

"Tell you what." The old homeowner dug in his pocket. "I hate to turn someone away with nothing. Here's some money for a meal, at least, you having gone to the trouble of coming out here and all."

"Thanks!" said Vash, genuinely appreciative. In his hard experience, people often were only willing to part with money in exchange for something of benefit to them.

It didn't bring him a meal fit for a king, but neither did him bring him bread and water. It was a good medium-sized breakfast, plenty enough that he was glad to have it, even if the waitress thought it odd that he requested to sit where he did. That was ok; Vash thought it a good thing that someone should be innocent enough to be unaware that his position offered the greatest view both of the door and the window showing the outside.

What a conundrum that such things as a good vantage point that could save your life should feel so…heavy. Yes, that was the word – knowing what it took to stay alive, not being able to completely relax even in the little things, that just felt a very heavy burden.

What must it be like to be innocent? To be able to drop your guard completely around people? If he had ever known, Vash had long forgotten…

Uh-oh. His thoughts were interrupted as he caught sight of the gunman Winchester outside. Looking for more trouble. For someone as dangerous as he claimed, it seemed Winchester had never learned the lesson Vash had learned far too early – never look for trouble, it's already looking for you.

Just as well that Winchester was on the prowl. If Vash got lost in sad thoughts, he truly might drop his guard for real. The only time he could afford to do that was in his tiny hotel room, after he had taken precautions. Outside of that, he always had to stay at minimum of yellow, paying attention to everything and thinking ahead.

He flagged down the waitress and asked for the owner. Once they were face to face, Vash got down to business. "Is that your thomas tied up outside?"

"No, I live in the apartment above here," the beefy owner, who was also the cook and in a stained shirt and apron, informed him. "It belongs to Jenny, the waitress." She was called back over. "Man here wants to know about your thomas."

"It isn't double-parked, is it?" the waitress fretted.

"No, ma'am," Vash assured her. "I just wondered what you'd ask to rent it for part of the day. I promise to have it back well before closing time."

"Rent it? Well, that's odd. You seem ok, though." Jenny fidgeted in thought. "All right, you can rent it. What do you need it for?"

"Oh, just a little fun." Vash started to take out some money, but Jenny held up her hands.

"You can pay me later," she said. "I'm not sure what to charge, and you might want to pay less after you're done. My thomas is a ladies' man, he doesn't really take to men riding him."

That was such a kind thing, and so monetarily unwise. Man, it must be nice to be as innocent as her.

Vash had one more thing to ask of her. "Do you know where I can buy a toy gun? Any kind will do."

"Actually, yes; I have one I was planning to take home to my nephew today. Would you like to rent it, too?"

Vash frowned slightly. "This one might have to be bought. But I'll pay twice what you did."

"Oh, I couldn't do that, mister, it wouldn't be fair. Just what it cost is a fair trade."

Vash blinked, unused to this level of honesty and kindness. But he agreed, anyway. It seemed Jenny was operating out of her own ethics system, and not just the pure naiveté many claimed innocence to be; while unwilling to accept money for the thomas until after its services were rendered, she wanted payment for the toy gun once it was in Vash's hands.

He would sort out jumbled thoughts on innocence and kindness later. Right now, it was time to deal with the outlaw again. He tucked the toy gun into his belt, having left his actual gun in his room. If he wore it around such as Winchester, someone was liable to get hurt.

Vash waited until he saw the outlaw outside again. Then he made his move, stepping out to meet him almost face to face.

"There you are, you coward!" Winchester declared. "Don't think you'll get away from me again!"

"Wouldn't dream of it," Vash replied. "I take it you want satisfaction for the grievances you've suffered?"

"No, I don't want – any of what that is," the gunman barked. "I want to settle the score!" He drew his gun and fired twice – except Vash was close enough that he had stepped even closer, so inside Winchester's range that he was past the gun and standing at Winchester's elbow. The bullets sailed harmlessly down the street.

"Get back!" Winchester demanded. He stepped back, firing twice again – except as fast as his trigger pull was, Vash moved even faster, again next to the gunman's elbow.

"Cut it out!" Winchester, still trying to be faster than Vash, moved back yet again and fired a third double-tap – with the same result, Vash moving with him so the outlaw's gun was extended well past its target.

"Now look what you've done!" the gunman fumed. "You made me use all my shells!"

Vash slapped on an apologetic look. "I'm very sorry. Terribly rude of me. I know how expensive ammunition can be. Here, I'll tell you what, let me make it right. I'll give you my gun. Then we do it the old-fashioned way, each taking ten steps. We turn, you fire. If you hit me, then you'll know you're the best gun around for sure. How does that sound?"

Winchester was suspicious. "You won't pull any of this tomfoolery of stepping toward me again?"

"You have my word," Vash promised. "I won't take one step toward you."

"All right, then. Here we go. Turn. Now – one, two, three –"

Winchester, being the dishonest cuss he was, got all the way to five before turning with a loud "Aha!", intending to guarantee his satisfaction by shooting Vash in the back.

But he was already denied the satisfaction he sought. Vash had kept his word not to move toward the gunman; instead, he had moved away and was already on the thomas he had rented, hanging tight to a rough ride but still skedaddling away.

Winchester swore vehemently, taking a quick aim at his target. He squeezed the trigger with all the hate in his heart.

The hammer clicked, a small white flag coming out the barrel and unfurling. Black capitals on it spelled out _BANG!_

In frustration, the outlaw threw the toy gun to the ground and stomped around in a tantrum. What a crappy start to the day!


	4. Chapter 4

DISCLAIMER: Trigun and its characters belong to Yasuhiro Nightow.

Colt Winchester was many things – a robber of people, a robber of banks, a robber of sand steamers – ok, so most of the things he was could be simply condensed down to "robber", that seemed fair enough. It must have seemed so to the authorities, too, or he would not have a bounty on him.

Colt Winchester was also a notorious killer of men – well, all right, he actually was only wanted for the one murder. And according to the Bernardelli Insurance Society, which was responsible for the bounty, it was only murder in the eyes of the law because it occurred during a robbery. If not for that, they said, one robber killing another would be poetic justice.

It was his partner's own fault, damn it! They had come in with their guns drawn and Winchester had specifically ordered everyone, "Don't move!" His partner moved, and Winchester shot him. That fool – he should have told Winchester something like, "I'm going to move, partner." It was like that woman on the radio, the one who referred to herself as a Love Doctor, was always saying – you have to communicate with your partner.

He was too fast, that's all there was to it. He simply was born to the gun. Everybody knew this, and that was why he was only wanted for one killing – nobody was willing to try to match the blinding speed of Colt Winchester, outlaw extraordinaire!

While it was true he was a robber and a killer and a wanted man – no doubt idolized by many who had no idea of the true hardships the wanted man must face, such as never being able to be in one place long enough to even let himself be pursued by the many ladies who no doubt longed to say their heart had been broken by him, their eyes betraying their desire for him even as their mouths cursed this wild, untamable man who pulled them into wild nights of romance only ever to be gone in the morning barely ahead of a posse. It was a shame he could never stay and actually experience being fought over by women under the Winchester thrall. – Winchester felt the truest thing about himself was that he was no fool.

This was why he was so irked by this blond outsider who somehow had a knack for making him _look_ like a fool.

But no more. The big blond had gone into the saloon some time ago. Winchester had watched from the shadows outside, pushing his patience to its limits as he waited and scouted, but no one else had gone in and he was positive his quarry had not left.

There would be no more running. No more nonsense. Now, Colt Winchester would end this!

He crossed the street and entered the saloon. Thaddeus was wiping down the bar. The blond man Winchester had come for was sitting at a table in the corner. He had no drink, but his non-gun hand was holding a flat rectangular object at almost chest level. He seemed to take no real notice of Winchester.

Well, that was going to change. "I have you now, you –"

"Hush!" the blond man commanded.

The outlaw was incredulous. "Did you just hush me? How dare you –"

"I said be quiet! There shouldn't be any loud noises or disruptions to my concentration. Maybe you know why."

In the dim light of the saloon, it was hard to tell what his opponent had in his hand, but it resembled something Winchester had himself used once in what had been meant to be a daring theft and instead was the destruction of the entire vault and the money in it because he'd used too much explosive.

His skin began to whiten. "Is that a detonator?"

The blond outsider shrugged. "What do you think?"

Winchester willed his bravado to return. "I think you're bluffing! No one would risk blowing themselves up!"

"You came here to kill me, right? To avenge your wounded honor or prove you're the badder man or whatever idiocy makes one man kill another? A certain type of man might think, if I'm going to die anyway, why not take you with me?"

"There's no way you have this entire place wired!"

His prey countered, "Isn't there? Haven't you been watching from outside for quite a while? Are you so sure I haven't been in here long enough to turn it into a trap for you?"

Winchester eyed the hand holding the detonator. It was steady as a rock. So was the stare holding his.

No man could make such a big bluff so calmly.

But it _had_ to be a bluff!

Yet – the stranger had outfoxed Winchester before, proven himself on par with the trickster, wily old Coyote. And he was right, he had been in here long enough that if he were of a mind, he could have the place set to blow. It was cowardly, but Winchester had no trouble believing a man who would run from a showdown as long as this one had been was a coward.

But Thaddeus – no. No, if this man were cut from killer cloth, Thaddeus would be only so much collateral damage. Perhaps his blond opponent even had Thaddeus trapped behind the bar with a dead-man or tripwire arrangement, so if the bartender had at any point tried to flee for help, the saloon would go up anyway.

"All right," Winchester ground out. "We will dance this dance again some other time. But rest assured, you big blond bastard, Colt Winchester will lead on that occasion!" He slowly moved out of the saloon, seething with every step.

Thaddeus the bartender waited until Winchester was well out of earshot to speak. "That might have been the biggest lie I've ever witnessed."

Vash glanced at him. "What lie? I didn't lie."

"You said you had this place rigged to blow. Thanks for making my heart jump for a second, by the way."

"Sorry about that. But if you'll think back, I never said any such thing. I just was careful with my words and let his imagination fill in the blanks."

"So that's not a detonator? That was why I panicked for that one instant – I knew you hadn't set anything up, you've stayed put right there since you came in, but then you had that thing and fooled even me."

The object in Vash's hand let out an electronic cackle of victory. He snorted and let it fall to the table with a thud. "That's just this stupid toy game I borrowed from the hotel clerk. Harder than hell to beat.

"But never mind that and never mind the goof for right now. I just checked my watch – it's beer-thirty!"


End file.
